Chapter 27: A God of Monsters Meets a God of War
Among all the Chaos Gods, Khorne is the simplest to understand.
There's no trickery, no seduction, no plagues or shadow games. Just blood, violence, and death. His daemons care for nothing but battle. While others may corrupt and scheme to claim souls, Khorne's daemons take them—ripped straight from the body in brutal melee. Close combat is not just a preference. It is sacred doctrine.
And unlike many Warp-spawned monstrosities, Khorne's warriors have one notable weakness: ranged attacks often fail to pierce their defenses, especially those fired by mortal hands. Lasguns, the standard armament of the Astra Militarum, are laughably ineffective—burning out their barrels from overheat before doing more than scratch a single Bloodletter.
But grab a shovel? A blunt weapon? Meet them face-to-face? You might stand a chance.
So when a Lizardman's massive war club slammed into the snarling skull of a Bloodletter, it wasn't just luck. It was the perfect countermeasure. The daemon's head was flung free from its shoulders, bouncing end over end across the blood-soaked ground. Its twitching body crumpled soon after, slowly dissolving into motes of ash.
"WAAAGH!!"
The Lizardman who struck the killing blow bellowed, the sound eerily reminiscent of an Ork warcry. His kin followed behind him in disciplined ranks, stepping from the Webway Gate into the heart of a battlefield already drenched in slaughter.
Onlookers froze. Chaos cultists, still giddy from summoning their god's children, stared in open confusion at the second portal lighting up.
"I only prayed to one god," one muttered, blinking stupidly. "Why are there two portals?!"
Their meager minds, already warped by the Warp, couldn't process what they were seeing. Had they accidentally summoned a rival daemon host? Had they offered their skulls to the wrong patron?
They didn't have time to find out.
Because while the mortals gawked, the Bloodletters knew exactly what to do. Anything not sworn to Khorne must die.Whether mortal or xenos, daemon or god—it made no difference.
Roaring with fury, the Khorne horde wheeled around. Their original charge toward the hive city's defenders halted. Now, they surged toward the new arrivals at the Webway Gate.
And the Lizardmen didn't flinch.
The front line of scaly warriors met the crimson tide head-on. Great wooden clubs collided with hellforged blades. Black iron cracked against bone. Screams rang out—not of fear, but of fury. Close combat had begun in earnest.
The battlefield became a churning sea of teeth and claws, of fangs and steel. The Bloodletters held the edge at first—born and bred for killing, blessed by their dark god for unrelenting melee. But momentum shifted.
Something massive emerged from the gate.
Thoros.
The blessed Lizardman warrior strode forth. Towering over the battlefield, he made even the Bloodletters hesitate. Their blades barely reached his thighs. With one gnarled hand, he seized a daemon's skull and crushed it like a fruit. Bones shattered. Eyes bulged. The corpse fell limp.
Dragging a mace the size of a Land Speeder, Thoros leapt into the horde and tore open a path of destruction, his roar cutting through the din of war like thunder through fog.
The Chaos Space Marines arrived moments later.
Clad in baroque armor and bearing the sigils of Khorne, they approached the ritual site expecting to find victory. Instead, they beheld madness.
"What the feth is that?" one marine muttered.
Thoros towered above them. Taller than any Chapter Master they'd fought alongside or against. Taller, even, than most Daemon Princes.
"Must be a Khorne Champion," another said. "Nothing we haven't seen before."
They were wrong.
Before that thought could fully take root, something far more colossal moved.
From the depths of the Webway Gate, a foot stepped forward. A shadow fell over the battlefield.
Not a titan. Not a daemon.
Something older. Something primal.
The lead Chaos Marine stared up, and a word escaped his lips—a word buried in the genetic code of every Astartes, never to be spoken.
"…Emperor."
He didn't know why. Perhaps some fractured memory from the Great Crusade echoed in his mind. Perhaps time in the Warp had twisted the years. But for one fleeting instant, awe overtook hate.
Then reality snapped back.
"Blood God preserve us! Get the daemon engines online! Bring everything!"
They screamed into their vox channels. Orders flew. Artillery was called up. Tanks, daemon engines, Helbrutes—everything not already deployed was summoned to the front.
It was too late.
Godzilla stepped out.
The kaiju surveyed the battlefield, his eyes settling on the sea of red. Bloodletters, hundreds strong, snarling and shrieking, their hellblades slick with gore.
Godzilla's chest began to glow.
A low rumble built in his throat, a deep harmonic that shook the earth itself. Blue light spilled from his jaws, gathering at the edges of his fangs.
Some of the Bloodletters actually looked up in wonder, captivated by the energy building within him.
Then came the blast.
A roaring beam of pure atomic fury cut across the battlefield, vaporizing anything in its path. Khorne's warriors, creatures of war incarnate, were annihilated before they could scream. There was no blood, no torn flesh—just seared atoms and scorched air.
The ones struck directly vanished instantly. Those at the periphery fared only slightly better—blasted through the air, crashing into the distant ruins of the hive city. Some survived, bodies charred, limbs twisted—but not for long.
Khorne's daemons were hardy, it's true. Resistant to fire, immune to pain. But even they could not withstand the focused fury of a god-beast's atomic breath.
When Godzilla closed his mouth, the ritual site was quiet.
What had been a seething mass of daemonic fury was now a scorched wasteland, less than a fifth of the enemy host still standing—and those were already locked in battle with the Lizardmen.
The Chaos cultists fell to their knees.
They didn't understand what they had seen. Some thought Godzilla was a manifestation of Khorne himself. Others cried out to Tzeentch or Slaanesh in desperation. One, trembling, whispered, "A god… it must be a god…"
And in a way, they were right.
But while some groveled, others fought.
Those who raised weapons against the Lizardmen were struck down without hesitation. Blood and brain matter mixed in the dirt. But the cultists who surrendered—who knelt and dared not resist—were spared, if only for now.
From deep within the giant beast's mind, a thought stirred.
System, what's the situation?
[This planet is currently under siege by Chaos forces. Demons and Chaos Space Marines control most territory outside the hive. Remaining Imperial defenders consist of a few Ultramarines and limited auxiliary guard.]
As expected, Godzilla mused. The Imperium's losing. As usual.
To those familiar with the setting, it was almost tradition: everyone got cool victories, but the Imperium? It got hammered, again and again—and yet, it never quite fell.
Still, this was a new front. A new game.
All Bloodletters, he noted. No daemonic alliance—just Khorne's boys. Simple enough.
Compared to Nurgle's plagues, Tzeentch's schemes, or Slaanesh's seductive horror, Khorne was refreshingly honest.
If you win the fight, you live.
If you lose?
You die.
And no one complained.
Because that was how Khorne liked it.
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